


The Torture of Small Talk (with someone you used to love)

by irhinoceri



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Break Up, Drunk Alistair (Dragon Age), F/M, Fall Out Boy Lyrics, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Gen, Grey Warden Alistair (Dragon Age), Grey Wardens, Hawke (Dragon Age) Dies, Loghain Mac Tir Dies, Long-Distance Friendship, Post-Break Up, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Here Lies the Abyss, Post-Dragon Age: Origins Quest - The Landsmeet, Post-Relationship, Reconciliation, Warden Bethany Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26612854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irhinoceri/pseuds/irhinoceri
Summary: Amell and Alistair part ways on bad terms when Amell chooses to conscript Loghain and their former nemesis goes on to slay the Archdemon, dying as a hero. Alistair leaves the Wardens, but eventually returns and forges new ties within the order. Meanwhile, Amell meets the family she never knew she had, and bonds with a cousin who will be gone too soon.
Relationships: Alistair & Bethany Hawke, Alistair/Female Amell (Dragon Age), Female Amell & Anders (Dragon Age), Female Amell & Hawke Family, Female Amell & Male Hawke (Dragon Age)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. in between being young and being right

Solona Amell was in Kirkwall in the year after the Blight. She saw him then.

As the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, she had traveled north across the sea to assess the situation with Fereldan refugees taking up in Marcher cities after the Blight. It was on the special request of Queen Anora. Because Solona had been born in Kirkwall to a noble family, Queen Anora thought she was especially suited to visit that city on Ferelden’s behalf.

The Queen’s attitude towards her had been one of cold civility ever since Solona had gotten her father killed.

She hadn’t meant to, of course. She had meant to spare the man. She had lost Alistair over that. Then she had lost Morrigan. And finally Loghain himself. Anora thanked her for allowing Loghain Mac Tir to die a hero, but her eyes had been empty and distant when she spoke the words.

Solona tried to feel something for her. But she had been taken from her own father when she was very young, and all she remembered was the pain of her mother’s tears, before she shut all of that away. She had forgotten the names of her siblings. All that had been taken from her, and more.

Teagan Guerrin accompanied her on the trip across the sea. He had a special reason for wanting to go to Kirkwall. Word had reached him about a young man who was very important to his family, who had fled Denerim in the days before the final battle. The messages from Kirkwall told him that if he wanted to preserve the dignity of the Theirin name he should come collect the wayward bastard son, before Anora sent assassins to dispatch him once and for all.

Family was an odd thing. Very odd, indeed. Alistair was no blood relation, was the son of an unknown woman, not Queen Rowan Guerrin who had been wedded to his father, the King. But he called Eamon and Teagan “uncles” all the same. The Guerrins had odd ways of showing they cared about him. Teagan was a good enough man, Solona thought, but Eamon’s scheming to put Alistair on the throne for his own political gain had caused a lot of problems, and the disdainful way Isolde had treated him had always just made Solona angry.

Solona had cared about him. She had cared so much. So blasted much.

She still cared, dammit.

She followed Teagan to a tavern in lowtown. Solona walked with feet like lead towards the door, and realized at the last moment she could not go in. The thought of seeing him again hit her with full force, and she stopped.

“Teagan,” she said. “I’ll meet up with you later.”

He came up short. “Nonsense, you have to come with me. Come talk sense into him.”

“You can do that better than me,” she said, leaning on her staff. “I’m going to stop by and see my family now, alright? I’ll meet up with you later.”

_ My family…  _ the words felt strange on her tongue. Family was odd, after all.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He sighed, but did not argue further.

She went looking for the home of her cousins, the Hawkes, and thus put off the inevitable, for a time.

They were living in relative squalor in lowtown. Her aunt, Leandra Hawke, was positively beside herself, getting a visit from the Hero of Ferelden, and acted as if it were a shocking surprise… as if she hadn’t sent several letters to the Arlessa of Amaranthine begging for money and favors. Her uncle, Gamlen, was a sour drunk, and all Solona could think about was Alistair, and how the letters that reached Teagan said he spent all his time in the Hanged Man bemoaning his lost glory and telling people he was a prince. It seemed so unlike Alistair, she could hardly believe it, and thought it must be a pernicious lie. Since when had he volunteered that information to just anyone, much less boasting of it to strangers in a tavern? Since when had he  _ wanted  _ to be a prince, or a king, and hadn’t he begged her not to go along with Eamon’s plans for him?

But he’d abandoned her when she needed him most, and she never thought he would have done that, either. So maybe she hadn’t known him, after all.

She wondered, idly, if Gamlen had once been a good man, before disappointment and drink turned him into the stinking old fool she saw before her.

The younger generation of Hawkes seemed more promising. Garrett was a roguish, charming sort of man with a dozen easy-going quips at the ready, but he also had a restless drive to change things, and talked of plans he was making to better their station in Kirkwall. He was going to join an expedition to the Deep Roads that would earn them enough money to buy back their family estate, and end the need Leandra had to write to her illustrious kin begging for support.

Bethany was a sweet girl. Quiet. Solona could tell right away that she was hiding magical ability. She didn’t say anything, though. She could understand. Or, she thought that she could. She’d never been hidden, never had to pretend she wasn’t a mage, because she had been taken to the circle soon after her magic had manifested as a child. But the emptiness in her heart and mind where Family was supposed to live gave her an idea why the Hawkes would hide the apostate in their family.

Solona had to keep reminding herself why she was here, why she was supposed to care about these strangers. They were Family. Leandra kept asking her about her mother, her father, and people she supposed had once been her siblings. She kept having to say she didn’t know. She couldn’t remember the last time she had received or sent a letter to them, though she thought she must have… so long ago…

Jowan had been like family to her, once. He had been like a brother, a replacement for the siblings she could not remember.

Alistair had been like family to her, once. She had loved him, had seen a future for them together after the Blight, two Wardens against the world.

And Morrigan, her best friend. She had come to think of the apostate mage as a sister, and Morrigan had said as much back.

They had all left her, in one way or another, so that’s what family was, she supposed. Betrayal. Abandonment.

Jowan had used her, he had been the reason she was expelled from the Circle of Magi. Corrupted by his use of blood magic and his love for a Templar, he had dragged her into his schemes before escaping into the night, only to resurface again at Redcliffe, responsible for a young boy’s possession. Even after all that, she had let him go, wherever he would. She hadn’t seen him again.

Alistair had thought she was mad to let a blood mage run off into the night, but she had said, “You don’t understand. He’s like a brother to me.”

Much later, Alistair had stormed off in a rage, quitting the Wardens, excoriating her for not punishing Loghain as he thought the man should be punished—executed quickly, cleanly, no conscription or Joining. “He killed Duncan, he killed my brother,” he’d said, “doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

She hadn’t known what to say. The realization that he was really going to leave her, not just complain until she talked him back down to reason, was just starting to hit her full in the chest. It was like getting the wind knocked out. She hadn’t seen him again.

Morrigan had come to her not long after Alistair’s defection with a mad story about needing to do a sex rite with Loghain, the newly minted Grey Warden, in order to prevent needless sacrifice and preserve the soul of an Old God.

Solona had been utterly skeptical of this plan. She had enough of the Circle in her still to be suspicious of a blood magic ritual that would keep the archdemon alive, even if in a harmless state, as Morrigan claimed. But, she had said that ultimately it had to be Loghain’s decision since he was the one Morrigan wanted to lay with, after all. And Loghain, wishing possibly to already be dead, had expressed extreme reluctance.

“If you demand it of me,” he had said, with obvious distaste, “I will do as you command. You are in charge.” But it was clear that he had no desire to touch Morrigan and Solona wasn’t going to demand or command anything of the sort. She wasn’t a monster. Part of her felt the need, still, to prove that mages weren’t all just blood sorcerers and abominations waiting to happen, and that Grey Wardens weren’t power mad.

She’d already conscripted him into the Wardens, an organization he hated, forcing him to participate in one blood magic rite with the Joining. That was enough. She had to draw the line somewhere.

Morrigan hadn’t been very understanding. She took her leave of Solona that very night, and since she wasn’t a warden, Solona couldn’t really do anything about it. She couldn’t accuse her of desertion, even though that’s what it felt like.

“Tis a pity you drove Alistair off,” Morrigan had said. “I think he would have agreed to it.”

Solona had felt the sting of that parting barb. Alistair had been her lover, not Morrigan’s, yet the witch seemed so sure that he would fall into her arms with the slightest encouragement. Perhaps absence had made her memory grow fonder, because in Solona’s recollection, Alistair wouldn’t have agreed to it under anything short of duress, either.

Now, Loghain was dead. He’d struck the killing blow against the archdemon, and all the healing spells in Solona’s arsenal had done nothing to revive him.

She wondered if that would satisfy Alistair at last. That is what Teagan had thought, when he told Solona of the letters he’d received, of his intent to bring Alistair back home with him when he went to Kirkwall. Teagan actually thought her presence would be encouragement, as well. He knew they had been more than friends, and that there was a time when Alistair followed her everywhere, deferring to her judgement on all things. That had ended with too many bad decisions (too much mercy) but Teagen still thought that young love would win out, in the end.

What a romantic.

Garrett, her charming cousin, encouraged her to get out of their depressing house and accompany him and Bethany to the Hanged Man. “Come, meet the crew,” he’d said, and she didn’t know how to object.

_ “I can’t. I’ve heard that my ex-lover is there and is an embarrassing drunk. Also, he hates me.” _

Garrett and Bethany were blood family but were still, basically, strangers, and she couldn’t find the words to be so honest. She should have just lied and said she had more important things to do. But there was something about the idea of just hanging out with her cousins and their friends that felt so  _ normal _ and  _ right _ that it was impossible to turn down, in the end.

After all, Alistair might not even be there. The letters Teagan received could be wrong, or Alistair could have moved on to a different city, having worn out his welcome in Kirkwall. Anora might have already sent assassins, despite having promised Solona that she would not. He probably wasn’t there.

He was there.

Of course he was.

As soon as they walked into the tavern, she honed in on him. Perhaps it was mage sense or just the draw of a person who had once meant the world to her, but right off the bat she saw where he sat at a corner table, with Teagan beside him. The older man had a hand on his shoulder, as if he had been talking to him for a while, trying to get through to him past the haze of alcohol and bitterness.

He looked terrible, disheveled and despondent with bloodshot eyes, unusually pale skin, and a scruffy blonde beard that had been stained with dribble. He clutched a large tankard in one hand and cradled his head in the other, only half listening to the words Teagan was saying to him.

Garrett tugged her along with a hand on her elbow, seeming not to notice how transfixed she was staring at the corner table, and chattered happily about seeing his friends Isabela and Varric over by the bar.

“Excuse me,” she said, quietly, firmly, pulling her elbow away. “I have something I need to take care of.”

She strode over to the table and swooped into the chair opposite the two men. Teagan looked at her with relief. Alistair blinked at her, slowly, but it was not a look of surprise. Clearly, Teagan had told him that she was also in Kirkwall.

“Solona,” he said, and it came out in a slur. “Look at you. You’ve been busy. Figures. All the fancy titles they’ve given you… lands… power… I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

“You look like shit,” she said, bluntly.

He chuckled, and it enraged and hurt her all at once, to remember how that chuckle had once made her feel happy, warm, and safe.

“We’re here to bring you home,” said Teagan. “Solona wants you to come back, and so do I. Eamon is worried about you.”

Eamon was more worried about his reputation, Solona thought. Worried about how it looked that the man he’d tried to put on the throne was drinking himself to death in a Kirkwall tavern and talking loudly about it, the whole time.

Alistair’s hand tightened around the mug. “No, thank you,” he said, before taking a long drink.

But she had seen, in his bloodshot eyes, a flicker of sadness, of pained hope, the look of that lonely boy who had talked to her about wanting to be loved, who feared being sent away, rejected, alone. He wanted to put all this aside and come home. She knew it. He couldn’t fool her. They had shared too much, been far too intimate for her to mistake this bitter bluster for truth.

“As Warden-Commander of Ferelden, I am commanding you to return to your post,” she said, her words carrying a forbidding chill. The metal tankard in his hand cooled until he yanked his fingers away, reflexively. The ale within turned to ice.

“I… I left the Wardens,” he said stubbornly. “Stupid club, I don’t need it… everyone hang—”

“Shut up,” she snapped. She stood up, and his eyes widened, the idea that she might grab her staff from her back and smite him passing over his face as clearly as if his thoughts were words written there.

“Warden-Ensign Theirin,” she said, pointedly using the name he had rejected, “one does not _ leave _ the Wardens until  _ death.  _ So, now, I give you a choice. My cousin,” she jerked her head back in the direction where Garrett and his friends were at the bar, eavesdropping openly on this exchange, “is going on an expedition to the Deep Roads shortly. You may accompany him, and  _ never _ return to the light, or you can go home to Redcliffe with your Uncle Teagan and sober the hell up before returning to your duty.”

He just stared at her, mouth agape, as if trying to reconcile the cold fury he saw in the face of the war-weary Warden-Commander before him to the compassionate girl he had fallen in love with almost two years ago.  _ This is what happens when you scorn Solona Amell. _

“Well,” he said, after a long uncomfortable silence in which she began to fear that he was going to be dog-headed enough to choose the Deep Roads. “Teagan… I guess I’ll be going with you, then.”

“Thank the Maker,” Teagan muttered underneath his breath.

Solona turned her back on them, then, and returned to her cousins at the bar. They did a remarkably bad job of pretending to not have been watching the entire exchange.

“Solona,” Garrett said, “I believe you’ve met Isabela?”

“In passing,” replied Solona.

“Oh don’t be shy. This one plays a mean hand of Wicked Grace,” said Isabela, with a wink. “Pity I couldn’t get her and that Prince of hers into bed, but there’s always time…”

“He’s not my Prince,” Solona said, flatly.

Once upon a time she had flirted with the pirate over a card game in a Denerim brothel, and Alistair, so innocent, had blushed and stammered madly when Isabela had suggested a more adventurous game. What a small world Thedas was, after all, that now she found the rogue thick as thieves with her cousins across the sea.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Isabela, her eyes dancing mischievously. “The way he looks at you…” and she added a wink to someone over Solona’s shoulder.

Solona knew it was Alistair, without having to look, but she did anyway. She allowed herself a surreptitious glance backwards, to see Teagan leading Alistair out of the tavern. Alistair’s eyes were, indeed, on her. But she thought she saw only bitterness and resentment in them, and she turned away. She heard the sound of the door opening, noises of the city pouring in for a moment, and then it was shut again.

“He’s a traitor to the Grey Wardens, and a deserter,” Solona proclaimed, tasting the bitterness in her own words. “I just came to collect a derelict, nothing more. So, who are your other friends?” she asked pointedly.

“Oh,” said Garrett, “this is Varric,” he motioned to a blonde dwarf seated languidly at a nearby table, “and that’s Merrill,” this time a petite elf wearing Dalish armor and inked with vallaslin, “and… hmmm, where did A—”

Bethany suddenly elbowed him, and he said, “Ow, what was that for?”

“For being boring!” Bethany said, a touch too brightly.

“I’m never boring,” Garrett muttered, rubbing his ribs. “I was just going to ask if anyone knew where  _ Aveline _ went.”

Solona was barely paying attention to their banter, at this point. A tankard appeared in her hand, passed to her by the dwarf, and she took a long drink. She could get drunker than Alistair, and she damn well intended to.

The next day, she got a letter from Teagan asking her to meet him on his ship that was anchored by the docks, and with a moan she roused herself and left the company of her cousins and their rowdy friends. She felt a little sorry to say goodbye, as she could see a life full of Garrett’s laughter, Bethany’s smiles, Varric’s stories, Isabela’s flirting, Merrill’s sweet lilting accent, and thought it would be a good life. She envied her cousins, for despite their reduced circumstances they seemed to have a true home in Kirkwall.

In her cups, Bethany had told her about Carver, the twin who had been killed by an ogre escaping Ferelden, and she had cried. “Garrett hides his pain with jests,” she had said, weeping into her ale, “But I can’t forget.”

Solona had wanted to cry with her, but couldn’t find the tears. She wondered what it would be like to have a brother you knew well enough to cry over. She only had a hole in her heart where her family should have been.

She dragged her feet getting to the boat, and thought several times about just ignoring the Bann’s request. She had done what he asked, had helped him collect Alistair, what more did he want? Was he expecting reconciliation?

Teagan welcomed her aboard and told her that Alistair was in a bad way, that he’d gotten so dependent on alcohol during his time in Kirkwall that he was shivering and sweating already after a night without it.

“Too bad,” Solona said, still feeling the effects of a hangover, herself. “Don’t give him anything; he needs to sober up.”

“Of course not,” Teagan replied, seeming a little miffed that she thought she had to give such an order. “I wanted to talk to you about what happens, now. I know you told Alistair that Wardens serve until death, but I was hoping that I could bring him back to Redcliffe to sober up. Perhaps it’s best if he stays with me, for a good long while.”

Solona looked away. The idea of actually returning Alistair to service hadn’t even occurred to her. Not really. She’d said big words about the lifetime compulsion just to scare Alistair into listening to her. But now the idea of  _ forcing _ him to serve by her side danced through her mind. She booted it out, quickly.

“I agree,” she told Teagan. “He needs to be with family, right now, and you’re all the family he’s got.”

Teagan looked relieved. “He’s asked for you,” he said. “I know you are very busy on errands for the Queen, but I thought you might want to speak to him again before we depart for Ferelden.”

She nodded. She had traveled to Kirkwall with Teagan, but it had always been the plan for her to stay in the Marches for a while and for him to return to Redcliffe as soon as he had Alistair. The idea that he had been asking for her softened her heart, for a moment. Perhaps he wanted to apologize for being such a fool…

She went into the small bunkroom off the cabin and found Alistair in bed, tossing and turning in sweat soaked sheets. The room stank to high heaven, and she wrinkled her nose. They’d traveled together for months, been dirty with the stink of the road and battles too numerous to count, but it had never bothered her the way the stench of drink did now. She had fond memories of bathing with him in forest streams. Or at least, they had been fond, once upon a time.

He was asleep, and she sat down next to him on a rickety three legged stool. There was a water basin and a cloth on the table near the bed, and almost unthinking, she took the cloth and held it in her hands for a moment, watching him.

“I’m so sorry, Duncan… I failed you…” he murmured in his sleep, and that almost broke her.

She reached out and dabbed at his face with the cool cloth. He stilled at her touch, and she wiped the sweat from his brow, and cheek, and neck. His eyes fluttered open and focused on her, but it was a long moment before he spoke.

“Solona… are you real… or a demon…”

“Both, possibly,” she said, with a small smile. Ever since their ordeal in Kinloch Hold, trapped in dreams, he had sometimes sought reassurance in happy times that it was not all a lie. Not like the happy familial scene with Goldanna he had been presented by a demon.

He swallowed, thickly, and said, “I need a drink.”

“You need water,” she said, glancing around to see if there was anything to drink, besides the basin of washwater.

“Something stronger…”

“No.”

He lay back against the pillow and looked at her, a measured look that she didn’t know how to interpret. His eyes were still bloodshot, and had a sick sheen to them, now that he was starting to go through withdrawals. She still dabbed at him with the cloth. He wore a loose undershirt which left some of his chest and shoulder exposed, and she dabbed at his collarbone.

“I’ve been with other women,” he blurted, grabbing her wrist, and it startled her. “Besides you. Lots of them. There’s plenty around here who’d lay with a prince.”

She drew her hand back, yanking it from his grasp, and dumped the rag back into the basin. “Congratulations,” she said, dryly, fighting to keep any emotion from her voice. It was such a strange thing for him to say. Such a strange thing for him to do, get drunk and sleep around Kirkwall. And to feel the need to tell her… like he had told her shyly that he was a virgin and then had told her that she was the first and  _ only _ woman he ever wanted to be with.

He was silent, and she wondered if he was waiting for more of a response. Maybe he wanted her to share what she’d been up to since he had abandoned her? Besides the public news he had obviously received, about her “fancy titles” and accrued power, the arldom she now nominally owned in Amaranthine along with her position as the Commander of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden.

She hadn’t been with anyone, since him. It pained her now, to think about it. She’d had offers. Anders, an old acquaintance from her Circle days; their rekindled friendship could have become more, but he had reminded her so much of Alistair it had hurt. Nathaniel Howe, who tried to kill her at one point but then became one of her most steadfast companions. Even bloody Oghren had made his passes, offering to warm her cold bed and make her forget about that scoundrel Alistair. (As  _ if.) _

She had maintained utmost professionalism with them, though. She was the Warden-Commander, now, and that was different than when she had been a new recruit, and Alistair her only companion, an equal. Technically he should have been her superior, the senior warden after Duncan and all the rest perished at Ostagar, but he refused to be viewed as a leader. And so she had been the one to lead. She led him into battle, she led him into bed, and apparently, now, she had led him into disulossion and drunkenness. Only, she hadn’t. He had left and done this all on his own.

“I just thought you should know,” he said, unable to endure the stony silence his proclamation had been met with.

“It’s none of my business, really,” she told him, trying to sit as indifferently as she could on a three legged stool. “I came by to bid farewell to Teagan. I have a lot of work to do in the Marches. Anora sent me to assess the status of the Fereldan refugees.”

He snorted. “Doing her bidding, are you? Didn’t know that was part of the Warden-Commander’s job.”

She glared. “Many Fereldans fled the Blight to end up here. You among them. Cleaning up after the Blight is my responsibility, now.”

“Dutiful. The very picture of a perfect Circle Mage,” he said, and it surprised her to hear him echoing something Morrigan had once used as a taunt. He paid more attention to Morrigan than he would ever have admitted.

“Loghain is dead,” she said, a non sequitur that she just couldn’t contain. She couldn’t stand his hostility. He had no right. He had abandoned her and still got his wish, in the end.

“I know,” he said, his lip curling in disdain. “I’ve heard all about how the Hero of River Dane became the Hero of Ferelden, buried with full Warden honors at Weisshaupt, laid to rest next to Garahel himself… it makes me sick. He should have died a traitor’s death. Should have paid for what he did at Ostagar… and everything after. Are you expecting forgiveness because he’s dead?”

“I don’t need forgiveness,” she snapped back. She picked up the rag again and threw it at his face. It slapped against him, wetly, and fell onto the floor.

“Good, ’cause you’re not getting it,” he snarled.

She stood up, kicking the stool aside, and turned to leave. Coming here was madness. What had she expected?

She slammed the door behind her, and when she saw Teagan waiting for her, she said, “Don’t ask.”

The Bann followed her off the ship, down the gangplank and onto the dock. “For what it’s worth, I see the sense in what you did,” he said. “With Loghain. Maybe he did deserve a traitor’s death, but he made a better sacrifice against the archdemon. They can build statues all they like, dead is dead. Alistair will see that, someday.”

“Thank you,” she said, stiffly. She hadn’t meant to make a sacrifice of Loghain. She had just needed more soldiers fighting on her side, rather than against, and she’d always chosen mercy when given the option, before.

“I’ll write to you,” he said. “Keep you updated.”

_ Why bother? _ she wanted to say. But instead, she just thanked him again, and took her leave, headache pounding in her head and heartache eating away at her heart. She could barely breathe as she walked back into the city, for the tightness in her chest, but she did not cry. She went back to her lodgings, a room in a hightown inn, fit for a visiting dignitary, not like the squalid tavern she had passed out in the night before, with her cousins and their friends. She was alone in hightown, but she was always alone, now, no matter who was with her. Perhaps she always had been.

Teagan left Kirkwall shortly thereafter, taking Alistair with him. She saw the Bann only once more before he left, and Alistair not at all.


	2. I said I'd never miss you, but I guess you never know

She was still near Kirkwall weeks later, when she saw her cousins again. She had gone on her own Deep Roads expedition, meeting up with an Orlesian Grey Warden and his crew to seal up old tunnels and kill Darkspawn. She’d lost the map Stroud gave her, which she found odd, until one day Anders showed up with her cousins and their dwarven friend in tow as if he knew exactly where she’d be.

She hadn’t seen Anders since the battle at Vigil’s Keep.

She had known him all her life, practically, since he had grown up with her in Kinloch Hold. They hadn’t been close like she’d been with Jowan, but she’d liked him well enough. He was always running away, though. Almost like it was a game. She’d never approved of that, not until she looked back on her time in the Circle from the wisdom gained from freedom, the outside word, and the Blight. She was just glad he’d escaped one last time before the abominations took over Kinloch Hold and so many mages had died there, abandoned by the Templars whose job it had been to protect them, but who had utterly failed and chosen to protect their own interests, in the end. She had arrived in time to save the Tower from Uldred and an annulment, but it had been a bad time to be a Mage of Kinloch Hold, nonetheless.

She’d met Anders again while he was on the run, at Vigil’s Keep, and invited him to join the Wardens as a way to escape the Templar’s justice. Technically it was a conscription, but she saw it as a rescue. Though a warden's life could be hard, it presented more freedom than being locked in a tower and menaced by Templars. “At least you are allowed to kill Darkspawn,” she’d told him. A good joke, he’d thought, and after that she had helped to destroy his phylactery and gifted him a kitten by way of apology for the Joining, and that had solidified their friendship.

At least, she’d thought it had been a solid friendship. She thought he had died at Vigil’s Keep, and Ser Pounce-a-lot with him. It had weighed heavily on her conscience, but he had asked to stay behind at the Keep when she went to defend Amaranthine, and so she had moved on, mourning her lost friend but honoring his sacrifice to defend the Keep.

Now, to see him alive, and in the company of her cousins, no less, was a shock. But it all made sense, somehow. She had known there was a mysterious friend who had been absent from their group the night she’d spent drinking with them. More than once someone would start to mention a friend or tell a story and then stop, either self-censoring or being interrupted rudely by another. And her missing map, someone had taken it, someone who knew how to sneak around her magical defenses and get into her room at the inn.

He approached her sheepishly, as if expecting a rebuke, but all Solona could think to do was hug him. So many people had died. It was a relief to see one come back from the dead, in a good way, for a change. He admitted to her that he’d faked his death because he saw his time with the Wardens coming to an end, and was worried that the Templars who blamed him for the deaths of their comrades would find ways to hunt him even wearing the Grey. Solona understood. She didn’t think about the fact that he’d been another person who abandoned her, because running away… well that was just what Anders did. You couldn’t really expect to tie him down, and it was true, the Templars had wanted him dead and had never appreciated her snatching him out of their grasp.

There was little time for going back over old adventures, apologizing for faked deaths and conscription, though. His visit was a not a social call. He had brought Bethany to her, blighted and on death’s door.

Stroud didn’t want to go through with the Joining, saying Grey Wardens didn’t take recruits out of pity. That was true enough; they sought recruits who were skilled fighters, and had never made a habit of going around giving the Joining to every blighted farmer or merchant in Ferelden. Perhaps it was cruel to deny a cure, but the Joining was half cure, half curse, and Solona had come to believe that sometimes it was indeed more a mercy to let someone die than doom them to a life of endless fighting.

But Bethany was her family, and you didn’t just let family die. Did you? That was a thing she thought sounded right. Garrett and Anders both begged to let Bethany join, Garrett uncharacteristically serious in the face of his sister’s impending death. And so Solona threw her weight behind their pleas, and Stroud relented.

They let Anders go. As Warden-Commander she knew she should probably do something about a deserter. This was the second one she had encountered in Kirkwall and just let wander free, Alistair to Teagan’s care and Anders to the warm bosom of Garrett and Co.’s friendship. She had always been one for mercy, that was true. Perhaps Alistair was right to think it made her a bad Warden, but she liked to think it made her a good friend. Her parting with Anders was amicable, at least, and she wished him well.

Now Solona had a cousin in the Grey Wardens. It didn’t feel like a reason for joy, because Bethany should have been able to stay with her real family, her mother and brother and their friends. Another Joining done out of desperation, like Anders, like Solona herself. Like too many Grey Wardens to count.

Solona went back to Ferelden eventually, reporting to Anora on her findings about how the Blight and the refugee situation was affecting the Free Marches. Anora was concerned about all her subjects who were displaced abroad, and how the influx of Fereldans into Marcher cities would affect diplomatic relations with their neighbors to the north. As far as Solona was concerned, the news was fairly grim. Kirkwall in particular was groaning under the pressure.

Before she left, Anora said, “There is one other thing I wish to speak with you about,” and Solona felt her stomach drop. She already knew what it was.

“Yes, m’lady?” she asked, respectfully. She had put Anora on that throne, but in this moment she knew showing some deference was the best option.

She had, after all, gotten her father killed.

“I’ve received reports that you and Bann Teagan found Maric’s alleged son in the Marches,” said Anora, coolly.

“We did. In Kirkwall.”

“And you allowed Bann Teagan to bring him back to Ferelden.”

“I did.”

Anora tapped her fingers on the arm of her throne, trying to hide growing agitation. “I believe that we had an agreement, did we not? In exchange for your lover's life, he would be exiled, so that he could not challenge my right to rule, again.”

An uncomfortable silence fell upon them when Solona did not immediately respond. Her mind raced. She tried to choose her words carefully.

Anora filled the silence. “I promised not to trouble him so long as he stayed to the north. The last thing I need is a bastard pretender rattling around Ferelden, stirring up discord. I thought you understood.”

“Yes, m'lady,” Solona said quickly. “I only wanted to make sure that Alistair rejoined the Wardens, as is his sworn duty. I believe that he was causing some disturbance to the locals in Kirkwall, spreading negative words about the Wardens and the Crown, and I thought it prudent to put him in the care of Teagan, who can exert his influence to encourage more discretion.”

“The Guerrins are the ones who wanted Alistair on the throne to begin with,” Anora said, barely containing her irritation now. She curled up a fist and brought it down on the throne. “What is to stop Eamon and Teagen from resuming their scheming now that they have him back?”

_ Nothing, _ thought Solona, but out loud she said, “I will, Your Grace. I am the Warden-Commander, Alistair is still a Warden, no matter his attempts at desertion. I will find a new post for him, one outside of Ferelden. He has been in no fit state to serve, and Teagan is doing my bidding by rehabilitating him. No more, no less.”

Anora gazed at her with an icy blue stare. Solona thought that this would be much easier if Loghain were still alive, if Anora still felt gratitude towards Solona for sparing his life at the Landsmeet. Perhaps, somewhere underneath all that ice, she still did, for saving her father’s good name, if not his life. But Solona struggled to see it.

“It would be much easier to have him killed,” said Anora. “I would sleep better at night.”

“You should be thinking about getting married and producing an heir,” Solona told her, returning her bluntness in kind. “That will secure your throne better than killing Alistair. He’s no threat to you anymore. I’ve seen him. He’s fallen quite far. He’s not the man I thought I knew, and he’s not a man anyone would rally behind.”

Anora’s ice softened. “And yet, you’d say anything, do anything, to keep him alive,” she accused, but she sounded more sorry for Solona than anything.

Solona looked at the floor for a moment, then up to the Queen, and said, “I know Cailan was a disappointment to you, m’lady. I know about the infidelity, the disregard of sense, the excesses, the way he left you to rule the land while he played at hounds. I know about the talks between him and Celene. But I also know that you weren’t happy when he died, I saw you mourn. I think you would have saved him, if you could.”

She knew this was as likely to anger Anora as convince her, and for a moment the Queen’s glare made her think she had truly miscalculated, but then Anora said, “Here we are, the two most powerful women in Ferelden, and we are arguing about Maric’s boys, still. Have it your way. I will not harm your puppy, not until he bites.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” said Solona, bowing.

“I do not want him to remain in Ferelden, though,” Anora declared. “I want you to see to it personally that a new post is found. Send him back to the Wardens in the Free Marches, or banish him to the Anderfels to serve at Weisshaupt.” She settled back into her throne, and mused, “I suppose Orlais would serve just as well; there is little love for Maric or the Theirin kings, in those parts. They would be mad to raise him up against me.”

“I will make sure that it is done, once he is able to serve,” said Solona. She hoped Anora wouldn’t press her on the timeframe. From what she had seen of Alistair, it would take some time before he was fit to be a Warden again. If he even agreed to it.

She left Anora to her royal paranoia, glad to be allowed to leave Denerim once more and return to Vigil’s Keep, and to Amaranthine. She might have gone to Redcliffe, but she was not a glutton for punishment.

She wrote to Teagan instead, informing him of Anora’s displeasure with Alistair’s presence, and telling him that as soon as Alistair was sobered up he would have to be moving on, again. She would give him a choice, between the Anderfels, Orlais, or the Free Marches. She told Teagan to write back when Alistair had made this choice, and she would handle writing to the Warden-Commander of the appropriate region to secure a position for him there. She had little doubt that the whomever she wrote to would comply. She was the second most powerful woman in Ferelden, after all. She wanted to laugh. What a cold and empty thing that was, with no family, no friends, no one around her besides the subordinates under her command and the nobles she had to deal with even when she’d rather not.

“Congratulations,” she said, to herself, sealing the letter to Teagan.

* * *

In the years to come, she would keep up a correspondence with Teagan, and various others who had news to share with her of her former lover.

Teagan initially wrote back expressing sadness that Alistair could not be allowed to remain in Redcliffe, asking if there was anything he could do to convince Anora that her former rival posed no real threat. But Solona could think of nothing. If all she could do was get Anora to agree not to execute him, what on earth could Teagan do? Dress Alistair up as a jester and parade him around in mockery, to showcase how unkingly he was? Perish the thought.

Eventually, Teagan wrote to tell her that Alistair requested to be sent back to the Marches, and so she wrote to Stroud, instructing him to prepare for the disgraced would-be-prince’s arrival. She requested that updates on his status be provided periodically thereafter, and Stroud wrote back his agreement.

For a time, he would send her scant correspondence, telling her that he continued his travels around the Free Marches recruiting for the Wardens. He kept Alistair, and her cousin Bethany, with him. All three of them had become briefly embroiled in the First Battle of Kirkwall, when the Qunari attacked the city, but had left so as not to become entangled in political matters. Solona had to laugh at that. What had she done since becoming a Warden besides get entangled in political matters?

She received a separate letter from her other cousin, Garrett, also telling her all about the battle, and his own fight to the death with the Arishok. He mentioned having met Bethany, Alistair, and Stroud that night, but spent more time detailing for her the exploits of himself and his crew. He did not do it boastfully, rather, she thought, to entertain her. Garrett had taken to writing her often, in the years since she had last seen him, with Bethany and Anders in the Deep Roads. He shared stories of his life in Kirkwall, the trouble he got up to with his friends, the people he met. He had managed to resurrect his family's financial and social standing in Kirkwall, and the letters began to arrive on fancy embossed vellum. Good, she thought, her family deserved some prosperity amid all the dread horror of the world.

He would later write to her to share the news that his mother had died, but he did not include any details. The terseness of the letter was the only way she knew he was sad. Garrett usually filled his letters with jokes and asides, running off into tangents, lapsing into prose. But when Leandra died all he wrote was:

_I regret to inform you that my mother, your aunt, Leandra Hawke nee Amell, has passed through the Fade on her journey to the Maker. Andraste guide her steps._

He included information on an upcoming funeral, but by the time the letter reached Solona, the date had already passed. She sent her condolences.

She thought about her own mother, Revka Amell, who had disappeared after Solona was taken to the circle. She only knew this because Leandra had told her, on that visit to Kirkwall. Had told her how her mother had disappeared, probably thrown herself into the sea out of grief, and then her father had taken her four siblings away to Ferelden. But they had all ended up being taken and dispersed among the circles themselves, and Leandra had lost track of him after that.

It occurred to her that her father might still be out there, somewhere, and that if she wrote letters to various Fereldan circles she might find out what had become of her siblings. But she never wrote those letters. She started to, several times, but stopped every time. She did not want to hear back that they had been killed after failed harrowings, or been made tranquil. She didn’t think she could bear it. If she didn’t know, she could just imagine that they were each thriving somewhere, and one day she might hear of a First Enchanter Amell.

Years later, when the unrest within the circles grew and annulments began to spread, Solona would wonder if she had made the right choice, choosing ignorance, when maybe she could have helped. Maybe she could have begun a correspondence with her siblings the way she corresponded with Garrett, and maybe she could have stopped it from happening. Or maybe she was giving herself too much credit, was starting to believe her own mythology, to think that her input could have stopped any of this from happening.

Garrett’s letters eventually ceased. Her cousin, she learned, had fallen off the map after his friend Anders blew up the Kirkwall Chantry. (Her friend, first.) All Garrett’s friends and cohorts had gone into hiding after the Second Battle of Kirkwall, in which the Champion had defended the mages against the templars and stood beside Anders, backing his drastic decision to protest templar abuses and Chantry corruption with explosives.

Nothing in Garrett’s letters had prepared Solona for that.

She learned it from Stroud, who wrote to her to inform her that he had made the decision to transfer Alistair and Bethany to Orlais, sending them off to join up with Warden-Commander Clarel. He said that he had made the decision to send Bethany away, deeming it necessary after the infamous actions of her brother and former friends in Kirkwall. He did not feel that Bethany was safe in the Free Marches, with anti-mage and anti-Hawke sentiment running high.

“I have appointed Alistair as her travel companion,” wrote Stroud, “and he will remain in Orlais upon arrival. I hope this does not displease you, as I know you are wanting to be kept abreast of his whereabouts, but I had to make the decision without waiting for your input.”

Solona wondered at the decision to send Alistair, specifically, to accompany Bethany to Orlais. It made sense, of course, to not send her cousin off on the journey all on her own, especially with the aforementioned reasons for sending her far away from Kirkwall. A tinge of jealousy stroked her imagination, as the idea of Alistair and her cousin suddenly occurred to her. They had been in the same company of Wardens for years, now, and Bethany and Solona looked remarkably alike, both daughters of House Amell, with the same family resemblance and magical inclination. And Bethany had a better disposition than she did. Why wouldn’t Alistair fall in love? She couldn’t believe she hadn’t seriously considered that eventuality before.

It didn’t matter. She hadn’t seen him in years. They were on bad terms. He hated her. She didn’t love him anymore. If anything, she worried for her cousin’s tender heart if Bethany had any feelings for that no good, washed up—

Oh, Maker’s breath. It didn’t matter. It really didn’t. What mattered is that Garrett had gone into hiding and Anders had blown up an entire cathedral.

She wasted no time writing to Warden-Commander Clarel, exhorting her to send word if and when Bethany and escort arrived safely in Orlais. Solona was familiar with Clarel, they had corresponded often, though she had never met the Orlesian commander in person. Clarel wanted desperately to help the Fereldan Wardens rebuild, but had been met with resistance from the throne. Anora wanted no help from Orlesian Wardens, remaining true to her father’s wishes. She declared that the crown had full confidence in their own Warden-Commander Amell to rebuild a force comprised entirely of native Fereldans, and declined Clarel’s offer to send in Orlesian recruits.

Clarel had written to Solona begging her to make the crown reconsider, but Solona had been on thin ice with Anora as it was, and she really didn’t want to make this the hill she would die on. She didn’t tell Clarel that she had already chosen the preservation of a man who hated her as that particular mountainous funeral pyre. Despite the Orlesian commander’s disappointment with Fereldan dog-headedness, Solona thought they still had an amicable relationship. They were both mages; it was impressive that they had risen so far in the ranks.

She received one letter back, eventually, telling her that Bethany Hawke and Alistair Theirin had arrived in good health and would be welcomed among the ranks of the Orlesian Wardens. Clarel had added a passive aggressive note saying that Orlais had no qualms about taking in Fereldan rejects so long as they were spoken for, and that Stroud had done that already.

Solona decided that now, perhaps, was the time to finally let go.

In more ways than one.

Being the Warden-Commander had chafed at her for longer than she liked to think about. She wanted, more than anything, to get out from beneath Anora’s thumb. And she had been considering the effects of the Joining for a long time. As a mage, it irked at her that the Joining was an irreversible blood magic ritual. She had studied it, and its effects, in her time recruiting to build the ranks of the Fereldan Wardens. The idea that nothing could be done, that no one knew how to do anything to stop the spread of the taint, felt like a failure of magic to her. And magic did not fail, only the people who used it.

It also weighed on her that every recruit who did not die outright during their Joining was still doomed to die young, as Wardens seldom lasted more than thirty years after their Joining. Those were the lucky ones. It was almost as bad as Harrowing, really. You either died or cemented your servitude to a thankless life in an order that many in Thedas viewed with hostility and suspicion.

The argument about whether it would have been more merciful to allow Bethany to die, or induct her into the wardens, played out in Solona’s mind many times over the years. There should be a third option. Why wasn’t there a third option?

She had made it a private passion to try to cure herself of the taint, even though it had not yet bloomed into full blight sickness. But she was getting nowhere, and the idea to travel beyond Ferelden to search for answers had taken root in her mind.

Solona eventually took a page from Anders and Garrett’s playbook, and just slipped away, abandoning her posting as the Warden-Commander. She could have resigned, officially, perhaps she should have, but she found she didn’t want to. She’d have to explain why she was doing what she was doing, and she didn’t want to do that. It was too complicated.

She headed west, but she didn’t seek out Bethany or Alistair in their new postings. Perhaps if she had exchanged letters with Bethany the way she had with Garrett, she would feel more comfortable dropping in on her cousin. But she never had. She had kept track of Alistair through Stroud, secretively, because she didn’t want Alistair to know she was keeping tabs on him. Didn’t want him to have the satisfaction of knowing she cared, or even worse, thinking she was doing it to report back to Anora. And since Bethany was also with Stroud, it had been easy enough to get updates that way.

Solona wondered if this neglect, this assumption that hearing about someone second-hand was as good as hearing from them directly, was why she was alone now—if this inability to maintain lasting friendships or familial connections was a defect in her. She’d always blamed her upbringing on the Circle, but now she didn’t know. Maybe some people were just born to be alone. Maybe she was just one of those people.

And she was alone, for years. She traveled far to the west, to lands which had never known a blight, and told herself she was looking for a cure, there. Maybe the cure was just getting away, far away from the lands where the darkspawn teamed underground. Maybe getting away from everything she had known would be the answer to everything.


	3. may the bridges I have burned light my way back home

Solona returned from her self imposed exile in 9:41, roughly four years after abandoning her post. It was a much needed sabbatical, traveling to lands filled with people who didn’t know her name, embracing the life of a lone wanderer. She felt emptied out and somehow, whole again. She was Solona, nothing more.

But all good things must end.

She traveled to Weisshaupt, in the Anderfels, carrying the answer to curing the taint. It would work on those with blight sickness already ravaging their bodies, so it could be administered to Wardens once they began to hear their Calling. She was proud of herself. She had made it possible for Grey Wardens to retire, to lay their burdens down. Look what she could do when she let it all go.

This would be her gift to the Wardens. Her true legacy, one she liked better than that of the Warden-Commander who conscripted legions of desperate Fereldans into a death cult from which there was no escape, after standing by and watching the Hero of River Dane fall to an archdemon.

She did not expect to find Alistair at Weisshaupt, but he was there all the same.

She had almost forgotten his face, like she had forgotten the face of her father, the names of her siblings. Almost. At first, when she saw him, it didn’t register. He wasn’t the boy she’d loved or the drunk she had scraped off a Kirkwall tavern floor. He just looked like a Grey Warden, to her. A handsome one (Maker, she was stupid) who appeared weary and careworn, something weighing heavily on his mind.

“Andraste’s Ass,” he swore, upon seeing her, and Solona was taken aback. The minute she heard his voice, it all came flooding back to her.

“Alistair,” she said, as if the name was foreign on her tongue. “I thought you were in Orlais.”

“And I thought you fell off the ass end of the map,” he retorted. “Do you know how many people have been looking for you?”

She got some satisfaction from that. The Warden-Commander of Ferelden just up and leaving her post, vanishing into the night. What a pathetic end to her story. But it was alright now. She didn’t know how to tell him she’d gone because she had to, to make peace with the things she couldn’t change about herself and do what she bloody well could about the rest.

“I was on an important mission,” she told him. Then, awkwardly, “How are you?”

“How am I?” he echoed, with an incredulous laugh. “Alive.”

“Obviously.” She wavered, hating his smug face, his non-answer, the way he kept looking at her like he thought she was dead and had come to Weisshaupt to haunt him. “How is Bethany?”

He looked surprised that she would assume he knew anything about her cousin, but it passed quickly. The fact that Solona had been keeping tabs on him just dawned on him for the first time, and he shook his head, exasperated. “Inconsolable,” he said, adding syllables but not words.

“What? Why?” Solona asked, distressed. She hadn't expected that.  _ Inconsolable. _

“Because…” He stopped himself, paused, and looked ashamed.

“Alistair,” she said his name severely. “What has happened?”

“You should sit down.”

“I think not.”

“Fine. Alright. Look, Solona, I’m sorry, I…”

The way he said her name, softly, brought back a flood of unwanted memories. No. He hated her, why was he sorry, what did he have to apologize for now? Surely he wasn’t going to tell her that he’d been all wrong, that he regretted abandoning her during the Blight, for cursing her name, spitting on their love… no, whatever he’d done this time it had something to do with Bethany. Dear, sweet Bethany…

“What the fuck did you do?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, quickly, then looked away, and repeated more introspectively, “Nothing. I just stood there… looking foolish…”

“Stood where?”

He sighed, heavily, and said. “Hawke. I mean, Garrett. Your cousin… he’s dead. I’m sorry.”

She had known, somehow, as soon as he had said  _ Inconsolable, _ but it still hit her hard in the chest to hear it stated so clearly.

Garrett, who had reached out to her, written her letter after letter for years, just because he’d seen his sad cousin and known, the way few people did anymore, that she needed a friend. Just needed someone to tell her stories about drinking games in taverns and fights in the streets, romantic entanglement with friends, adventures in caves…. telling her about life, not asking for anything or having any reason to write except that she was Family, and they should stay in touch. She never would have been the one to initiate a correspondence and wouldn’t have known what to write if it wasn’t official business.

It had been years since the last letter, but somehow, she hadn’t thought it would really be the last. And now she’d never get another letter from him again.

“How?” she asked, barely able to get the word out. Her chest was tightening, and she leaned on her staff like an old woman, trying to keep it together, to not let Alistair see how close she was coming to falling apart.

“I… I wouldn’t know where to start,” he said. “Where have you been? Have you heard what’s happening?”

She’d gotten little news from the east during her travels. That had been good, at the time. It had been liberating. Now she just shook her head, mute, gripping her staff. Maybe she should have sat down…

He approached her, hesitant, and she didn’t know what to make of the concern in his eyes. There was compassion there, and she thought in that moment that she would prefer the hatred and bitterness she had suffered the last time they’d met. He only looked at her this way now because her cousin was dead.

“Sit,” he said, and took her by the arm, guiding her over to a bench. The stone was cold and unyielding beneath her, but she sat all the same. “And for Maker’s sake, breathe. You’re doing the thing again.”

He said it like ten years hadn’t gone by since they had traveled Ferelden during the Blight together. She clenched her jaw and looked at him defiantly, daring him to keep pretending like he still cared, like he himself hadn’t blasted a hole in their relationship that could never be mended. “Just tell me what is going on.”

Another sigh. “Well…”

And he told her about Corypheus, and the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the rise of the new Inquisition. He also told her how the Wardens of Orlais had fallen under the influence of the Venatori, servants of Corypheus, and were tricked into hearing a false Calling that led them to turn to blood magic rituals. He told her that he and Bethany had rejected Warden-Commander Clarel’s directives and had been branded traitors as a result.

“Bounties were placed on our heads, we became hunted,” he said. “So we split up, went deep into hiding, and tried to get help outside Orlais. Bethany headed up north, to the Anderfels, and I headed east, to Ferelden.”

“You’re banished from Ferelden,” she said, and it immediately sounded stupid out loud, after all the terrible things he’d related, but she finished the thought anyway, “Anora threatened to have you killed if you returned.”

“Well, what’s one more bounty,” he dismissed this concern with a shrug.

“But you should have sent Bethany to Ferelden, and gone to Weisshaupt, you—”

“Thank the Maker I didn’t have you there to boss me around,” he said, and the old bitterness resurfaced in his laugh. “I got as far as Crestwood before I got pinned down, but I managed to get word back from Hawke. He’d been in hiding ever since Kirkwall blew up, but Bethany knew how to get in touch with him, of course.”

_ Of course. _

He told her of meeting the Inquisitor and traveling to Skyhold, staying there for a while waiting for the Inquisitor to prioritize the Warden’s problems and hoping that Bethany made it to Weisshaupt. Then to the Western Approach, with Hawke and the Inquisition, storming Adamant, seeing the atrocities the Wardens were committing under Clarel, but finally being able to put a stop to it.

And he told her of Hawke—Garrett—taking responsibility for Corypheus and insisting on staying behind in the Fade to cover their retreat from the nightmare demon.

The Inquisitor banished the Wardens from Orlais, and Alistair had led the survivors here to Weisshaupt, since he was now the Senior Warden of the Orlais forces.

Bethany had reached the fortress weeks ago, and was safe, but learning of her brother’s fate had broken her. He was the last family she had left.

_ Not the last, _ thought Solona, though she knew she would be poor consolation.

“It’s been a hard few years for her,” Alistair said, “having to leave the Marches behind. She believed that the Wardens served a noble purpose, that it made leaving everyone she loved behind worth it. Didn’t have the heart to tell her it’s all lies, a sham, but I guess she’s found out now.”

“You left my cousin behind to die,” Solona said, flatly. Then she hissed in a low tone, “It should have been you.”

She wanted to hurt him, to make him feel what she was feeling, but he just shrugged. He seemed too defeated, or too inured to the horror of it all, to react.

“Probably,” he agreed. “But the Inquisitor wouldn’t let me. Said the Wardens needed a leader after Clarel’s death, and that she didn’t trust anyone else to do it.”

Solona laughed, a bitter, mirthless cackle that surprised even her. “People keep wanting to make you the leader,” she said.

“A cruel jest,” he confirmed, quietly. “Couldn’t mess up my way out of this one, though.” He was silent for a while, but when she didn’t speak again, he offered, “The nightmare demon had my number, you know. Mocked me for running away from responsibility, and for… leaving you.”

“Good,” she said, and wiped at her eyes. She wasn’t crying. Her eyes were just wet. He reached out a hand to her, and she stood up, abruptly, leaving him sitting on the bench all alone.

Solona went to the First Warden, turned in her findings from her journeys, and excused herself after giving her report. It didn’t seem so monumental, anymore, knowing that the bulk of the Orlesian forces had already been wiped out. And she had no idea what had become of the Fereldan Wardens.  _ Her _ wardens, whom she had abandoned, on the pretense of saving them all, when really she just wanted to escape her duty, wanted to be the one who said fuck it all and disappeared, for a change.

She found Bethany, alone in the library, and stood there awkwardly for a moment before saying, “Hello, Bethany. Do you remember me? Solona. Your cousin? Solona Amell.”

Bethany did remember her. She had dry eyes, perhaps having cried as much for her brother as she could, but she was even more quiet and serious than Solona remembered her. “I thought Alistair couldn’t find you,” she said.

“Was he looking for me?”

“Yes. He went to Ferelden, hoping you would still be there, or that your disappearance would offer some clues as to what was happening with the Calling. He thought you could save us.”

“Oh.”

She felt stupid for having had to ask. The fact that Alistair was still looking to her for answers, after everything… Andraste’s ass, indeed. She had disappointed him, again. This time she actually regretted it. Perhaps if she had been in Ferelden, where she belonged, Garrett wouldn’t have had to die.

She sat with Bethany for a while, talking, mostly about Garrett, and Carver, the cousin Solona had never met. Bethany had little to say about her mother’s death, she had been with the Wardens when Leandra died, and Garrett hadn’t told her much more than he’d told Solona. But she learned that Leandra had fallen in with a bad sort of man, looking for a second chance at love. The world was not kind to widows, and Solona knew without being told that Garrett would have blamed himself, for not being able to protect his mother. He’d destroyed his life in Kirkwall in order to protect Anders.

Well, now he’d died protecting others in the end. She hoped he was happy with himself, wherever his soul now rested.

They spoke of Bethany’s years with the Wardens, first in the Marches and then in Orlais. She had made friends of the other Wardens, which did not surprise Solona, for Bethany seemed the sort of person who would make friends easily, endearing others to her with little effort. But there was sadness there, as she had been ripped from the Marches due to events in Kirkwall, and then after having settled in Orlais as best she could, lost those comrades as well. Most of them were now dead, either sacrificed in the blood rites or fallen at Adamant. It was more than just Garrett’s death that left her quiet, distant, “inconsolable.” But Solona did not find her as broken as Alistair had thought. She saw grief and loneliness, but Bethany had a backbone of steel underneath her sweet exterior. She’d survived much loss and was still in one piece. The abyss had not swallowed her yet.

Solona learned that in the Marches, Bethany had not considered Alistair a particular friend. He had returned to the Wardens a changed man from the bitter drunk Bethany remembered frequenting The Hanged Man that first year in Kirkwall, but she thought of him first and foremost as the man who had broken her cousin’s heart and betrayed her trust, so she kept him at a distance. Solona was touched by that, touched by the fact that Bethany was that loyal to the idea of her, trusting her judgement over Alistair’s assessment of it. 

“He often spoke of you,” Bethany said, unprompted, and Solona did not ask if it was for good or ill. She didn’t want to know.

She felt certain that Alistair had spoken poorly of her in Kirkwall, ranting in that bar to anyone who would listen, and though she hoped that he had learned to keep those thoughts about the Warden-Commander of Ferelden mostly to himself once back in the ranks of the Marcher Wardens, she had little doubt that anyone who found out he'd traveled with her during the Blight would ask for stories of that time. Leliana had once written to her that everyone she met asked the same question, _ You know the Hero of Ferelden? What is she like? _

Whatever the case, it had not been until Stroud reassigned them both to Orlais that Bethany would come to consider Alistair a friend. Someone she could trust. They had been outsiders in Orlais, Fereldan natives who had lived in the Marches for years, and the Orlesian wardens were standoffish and difficult to befriend in the early days. Solona detected nothing of the romantic affection she had once imagined, when Bethany spoke of Alistair. Her cousin only spoke of the terrible time when all the other Wardens seemed to be losing their minds, and though she and Alistair were also tormented by the false Calling, they alone had rejected Clarel’s orders. Possibly, because they were already the odd ones out, already a little apart from the others, they had questioned orders. The final straw came when Bethany had been ordered to kill Alistair and use his blood to summon a demon, binding it to her, and she had refused, prompting them to both flee the Wardens.

_ It should have been you. _ Why had she said that? He hadn’t told her that detail. That if it were not for Bethany’s disobedience, it would have been him. 

Solona was still trying to adjust to the idea of what the Wardens had done, and hearing it retold from Bethany’s perspective made it no less horrifying and unbelievable than when Alistair had given her a brief overview. She wanted to think that this could never have happened to the Wardens she had known personally, had fought beside in Ferelden and the Marches, but she had been gone for a long time. A lot could change in four years. A lot of things could change in an instant. And she knew, deep down, that the Wardens were taught to believe that no cost was too high, no sacrifice too great, to fight the Blight. Had she not said the same thing to Alistair, when she defended her choice to spare Loghain? But she had chosen mercy, borne of practicality, not senseless death. She thought that made all the difference.

Solona left Bethany alone after awhile, and found her steps leading her to the rotunda where the bodies of the Heroes lay. Those Wardens who had died during Blights, striking the final blow against archdemons.

Loghain was laid out there, beside Garahel, just as Alistair had imagined with disgust once upon a time.

Maybe Alistair was right, maybe Loghain didn’t belong here beside the Wardens’ greatest heroes. Maybe he should have hanged a disgraced traitor in the street, maybe he should have had his head chopped off and mounted on a pike over the gates of the city. But what did anyone really know about the others whose bones lay in state, here? Were they the faultless paragons history made them out to be? Did it matter?

Solona had little feeling for the man. After all, he’d spent most of his time and efforts during the Blight trying to get her and her friends killed. He’d betrayed his King, allied himself with a man who had wiped out the Cousland family, sold elves into slavery, poisoned Eamon Guerrin and refused to accept aid from the Wardens in Ferelden’s greatest hour of need. But he’d also submitted himself to her judgement and served, for the short time he was under her command, as ably as he could. He’d been taciturn, and had died as much a mystery to her as he had been when he’d been her greatest foe, but he had flung himself at the dragon with no thought towards self preservation, and she lived now because of him.

Strange, to owe your life to your sworn enemy.

She was musing over this when Alistair found her again. She wondered why he couldn’t just leave her alone. Hadn’t they hurt each other enough?

“I saw Morrigan at Skyhold,” he said, cautiously, but too conversational to make her think he was about to start in on Loghain again.

He came up to stand beside her, looking down on the man he hated so much he had allowed it to tear them apart.

“Oh?” Solona said, unable to pretend that she wasn’t curious about Morrigan. The last time she had seen her old friend was when Anora sent her on a wild goose chase to track down the “dangerous apostate,” and it had been a frustrating and unproductive experience. There was not the bad blood between them that stood between her and Alistair, but Solona still felt betrayed by Morrigan’s leaving. They had quarreled over what she meant to do, why she had left, whether she had lied when she said Solona was like a sister to her. Morrigan had disappeared into her eluvian. That had been the end of that.

“She thought I should know where you had gone off to,” he said. “I was surprised. That the two of you didn’t stay in touch, I mean.”

He didn’t know about Morrigan’s desertion coming on the heels of his own, she supposed. Didn’t know that Loghain had refused to participate in a ritual, or rather, that Solona hadn’t forced him to. She wasn’t sure if that would earn back some respect, or not. He might appreciate that she had thwarted Morrigan’s plans. But what did she care about his respect? She didn’t.

“I tend to lose track of my friends,” was all she would say.

“She seemed worried for you. Said she hoped you were happy.”

“I doubt that.”

“I mean, she seemed sincere. As sincere as Morrigan can be.”

“Wonderful.”

“Leliana asked after you, too.”

Solona shrugged. She’d had a good relationship with Leliana, until the bard had become the left hand of the Divine, devoting herself to the Chantry even after Solona had counseled her to leave that life behind. They had maintained a professional correspondence, until Solona decided to disappear.

“I hear rumors they’re trying to make her the next Divine. Shake up the Chantry a bit.”

She wondered if that was a bad joke. Not Leliana being the Divine; that seemed as likely as anything these days, but the shaking part. Exploding. Boom.

They fell into a long silence. She wasn’t going to speak. Alistair finally said, “So, there he is. In all his glory.”

“Yes.”

More silence.

“I think he’d feel justified, if he could see what the Wardens did to themselves,” he mused. “Especially since it happened in Orlais. What he accused us of… they did it.”

“In a way,” she agreed.

“I still can’t forgive him.”

“No one asked you to.”

Silence.

“I just thought—”

“He’s dead, Alistair. You’re not. Can’t you just leave it at that?”

“I shouldn’t have left,” he blurted, then let out a long breath that sounded as if he’d been holding it for ten years. “Not then, anyway. Not before our duty was done. I deserted you. I was the traitor. I’m sorry.”

She could tell that the words were difficult for him to get out. But she still gave no response.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he said, in a tone that suggested he very much did expect that she at least say  _ something. _

She turned away from Loghain’s bones, within that grand silverite armor of his, empty gauntlets holding onto the Sword That Killed The Archdemon. She glanced at Alistair as she turned, but her eyes wandered to another tomb, another dead hero, before she spoke.

“I’m going home. To Ferelden,” she said. “It’s where I belong. Hero Of, and all that.”

“I see.”

Ferelden was the one place he could not go.

“I’ve talked with Bethany. She's coming with me. It’s her home, too. And we’re the last Amells. We need to stick together.”

“I understand.”

They were quiet for a long time, again, until she asked, “What will you do?”

“Stay here, for now,” he said. “Await further orders. We’ll be trying to get back into Orlais, I know. The First Warden is drafting letters as we speak. He’s threatening to make me the Warden-Commander of Orlais, if he can convince Gaspard to ignore what the Inquisitor decided. I doubt that will go well, but maybe in time we’ll return. The Inquisitor is ruling the south, right now. She seemed to think well enough of me—the bar wasn’t that high, considering what the rest of the Wardens were up to—but she still didn’t want us getting in the way between her and Corypheus. ”

Solona considered this information. Politics. Always getting entangled in politics. “Has my position been filled? In Ferelden?”

“Not that I know of. No one would dare, until they got confirmation of your death. Last I heard, your Warden-Constable is running things.”

She nodded. That seemed about right. So she still had a job, when she got back. “Leaders of the Southern Wardens, one in Ferelden, the other in Orlais,” she said, contemplating the picture that painted. “If only Duncan could see us now.”

“I don’t think he’d believe his eyes.”

“I think he would. He had faith in us.”

“I still wouldn’t expect Gaspard to let the Wardens put a Theirin in charge of their forces in Orlais,” Alistair said.

“You’re not a Theirin. You didn’t want to be.”

She wasn’t looking at him, but she could hear the sad smile in his voice. “If I wasn’t a Theirin, I could go home.”

She nodded, but still denied him the satisfaction of giving up, saying, “I’ll talk to this Inquisitor when I can. It sounds like she has Gaspard’s ear, if she gets to decide whether the Wardens are allowed in Orlais. And if you’re the only one she trusts, it will be easy.”

“You talk as if I want it. You know I don’t.”

“Maybe, but Garrett didn’t sacrifice himself for nothing,” she said. “He left you to lead the Wardens, so I guess you’ll have to, won’t you? If you’d been in charge instead of Clarel none of this would have happened. That counts for something.”

“Maker’s breath,” he said. “Is this your revenge?”

“Perhaps.”

Silence, again. More comfortable, this time. Thoughtful.

“Look at us,” he observed, with that fond old chuckle she knew too well, “plotting to take over the world. Just like old times.”

That made her uncomfortable, especially standing in the tomb of dead Warden heroes. “It’ll never be like old times,” she said, sadly. “Your apology came ten years too late.”

“I know,” he said, and there was pain in his voice that hurt her to hear.

She moved to leave, and he reached out, said her name… but then dropped his hand back to his side as she passed by. She could just feel the brush of his fingers against her sleeve.

Solona was almost to the door before she turned back, said, “Write to me. Every day. You know where to send them.”

He furrowed his brow. “What do you want me to write about?”

“Nothing. Everything. Cheese, darkspawn, bizarre Orlesian fashion. What you dreamt about the night before. It doesn’t matter.”

He looked at her for a long moment, shifted, then said, “Alright.”

And with that, she slipped away, leaving him alone with Loghain’s bones.


End file.
